Sutures
by Elle Froid
Summary: Even as his adopted role as Batman, Damian Wayne finds life a little lackluster—especially after the death of his fiancée. Numbness ever-present, will he be able to find something—or someone—to bring him back? F/M, M/M, F/F.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One**

Damian couldn't help but twist his lips into a grimace.

The woman before him sat upright, her wide doleful eyes blinking hopefully. For some reason, she had elected to wear blood-red pumps and a shirt far too low-cut to be acceptable for an interview; as he pretended to skim through her resume, he didn't have to guess as to why. When Bruce had made the job opening public, everyone and their sister was clamouring to provide bedside manner in Wayne Manor.

Especially if it meant their charge's son was an available bachelor that stood to inherit millions.

This woman—Kelsey something or other, he read—was no exception. She tucked a chestnut curl behind her ear slowly, keeping her baby blues trained on him. In truth, her full lips and large eyes were attractive enough, same went for the curve of her hips and long legs.

But it was clear from the rubbish labelled a resume before him that she was anything but a good match to be a nurse for his father.

"Sorry," he said flatly, tossing the paper down beside him. Though he had the intent for it to land on the side table that held his coffee, he wasn't going to fret that it had made its way to the floor instead. "I'm not much of a reader. Why don't you just tell me your background in nurse. Hospice care—or whatever."

Blinking her long lashes once again—this time, he did little to hide the cringe it elicited; why did women think he liked that?—she cleared her throat. "Well," she began, her voice velvet, "I have two younger sisters that I've looked after since I was sixteen."

"And… that makes you think you're qualified to look after a senior?"

Though he had kept the venom from his tone, the question still kept her off-guard. A satisfactory smile crept up onto his lips, and he crossed his arms in wait of an answer.

Flustered, her words tumbled out of her mouth like a mess. "I—well, it's not _exactly_ —but seniors, see they can talk, and kids can't!" she stumbled. "If anything, I'm—I'm _way_ more qualified than—"

"Thanks, Kimmy," Damian cooed, not bothering to hide his smirk. "But I think we're done here."

Getting to his feet, he waited for her to do the same; her eyes glanced at his hand as though she had been expecting him to help her up. When he didn't, she pursed her lips and stood.

"It's Kelsey," she corrected him under her breath, avoiding his gaze.

"Doesn't really matter at this point, does it?"

She flushed a fierce crimson but didn't react to his comment. Instead, she strutted away from him toward the entrance hall. Her heels clacked ferociously on the marble floor, and he winced with every sound; Alfred would be rolling in his grave.

Out of habit, he followed her, making sure she made it all the way out of the door. Slinking parkway down the stairs, he watched as she approached the mahogany exit, her hand reaching for the pewter clutch.

Turning on her heel, her curls whipped out around her. "Did you ever have any intention of hiring me?" she asked, her perfect brows furrowed in confusion.

"No, not really," he admitted with a shrug.

"Asshole," she snarled before hurling the door open. It must have been heavier than she expected though, because it didn't swing back very far. Instead, she forced it open as she shoved herself through, allowing it to slam behind her.

With a heavy sigh, he made his way back up the first set of stairs, bypassing the sitting room and heaving for the next set. He ran his hand along the thick mahogany bannister that had gone longer than usual without being polished, each deep scuff a memory not his.

Settling on the fourth floor, he knocked on the door of the master bedroom. "Are you decent, old man?"

"Most people just ask if they can come in, Damian."

With a smirk, he opened the door and stepped into his father's bedroom. Bruce was perched in bed with a dog-eared book, the pile sitting on his bedside table overflowing. Taking a seat beside him on the bed, Damian nodded to the pile. "Want me to get you more?"

His father shook his head. "I'm perfectly capable of having A—getting them myself."

" _Right_ ," Damian supplied glumly. It was clear that, even after a year of him being buried deeply in the ground next to his parents, Bruce still couldn't utter the name of his butler. "Well, let me know if you change your mind. The last thing we need here is you getting even more senile than you already are."

"I may be senile, but I'm still far sharper than you'll ever hope to be," his father announced, doing little to hide the smirk that perforated his lips.

Damian rolled his eyes. "Ass."

"You don't get it from nowhere."

"Guess not."

"Speaking of senile though," Bruce began, his voice a little higher but more serious than it was before. It was a bad sign, one that told his son _exactly_ what he was going to ask. "How did today's round of interviews go? Any good prospects?"

Once again, Damian was faced with the awkward question. On one hand, not bringing anyone in to care and manage his father made him look grossly incompetent; on the other, bringing in any of the people who had applied would make him look even more so.

"No," he finally sighed after a while. "As usual, just the usual gold diggers."

Bruce nodded; there was no doubt in his mind that it would have come to that. Even so, it was becoming increasingly obvious that his limited mobility and health would not fair well without a replacement for his previous caretaker.

"You have to sift through them better. Read resumes more."

"You really _are_ the world's greatest detective," Damian oozed, the vitriol palpable. "Oh, but wait—people _lie_ on resumes literally _all the time_ to get what they want."

"Maybe it's your personality that's scaring them away."

"Tough shit. If they can't put up with it, there's no place for them here."

Bruce couldn't argue that he had a point.

•••••

The air was bitter cold against Damian's face, but he wouldn't have had it any other way. Winters in the batsuit, he could handle; it was the sweltering summers spent peeling his underclothes from his skin that bothered him. Thankfully, the autumn nights had been getting progressively cooler, slinking them into a biting winter.

Clouds hung low in the sky, though they remained free of the usual signal. One way or another, Gotham had always had something going on. Every piece of scum from an eccentrically gifted supervillain with the ' _new_ ' idea of taking over the city to the layman convenience store robber had a weird fetish with the metropolis, though he was never entirely sure why.

There were plenty of large cities asking to be shitholes; why Gotham? Especially when it was clear there was so much competition.

All said, Damian had to agree that tonight seemed particularly boring. Aside from interrupting the odd drug deal—a minor one consisting of kids, really—his night had largely consisted of hiding in the shadows, waiting for something to happen. An odd occurrence, he mused as he sat atop a building, but even more so a waste of time.

There was far more that could be done down in the Bat Cave instead of lazing about; he hadn't kept fresh tabs on where ever supervillain was recently, though he knew his father would have mentioned if one had broken out of a prison or two.

Even so, it still sounded better than sitting, biding his time, and waiting for something interesting to happen. Reaching for the communicator on his forearm, he hit the button that summoned his ride. It wasn't long before the Batmobile locked onto his location and found its way to the bottom of the Times building, its massive tires coming screeching to a halt despite the dampness of the road.

He leapt down, clamouring into it. As the roof closed above, locking him into the vehicle, he couldn't help but find his eyes locking onto the convenience store beside. It wasn't being robbed or anything—though at this point in his boredom, he almost found himself _wanting_ it to be—but the flashy signs of cheap snacks grabbed his attention.

 _Stupid._

The word rang through his ears, even as he shifted the Batmobile into drive and shot off down the road. _Stupid_. How was it, he mused, that even after everything that happened with her, he couldn't look at a damn ice cream cone without thinking of her? Stupid.

 _'She had one that night, too,'_ he reminded himself, hanging a rather sharp right as he came to an intersection. The tires screeched against the road, burning the asphalt, but his mind was too far away to think about it.

His knuckles hardened against the steering wheel, his jaw locked. Months could have passed and her name wouldn't have crossed his mind at all, let alone her bright smile, the way she used to push her damn ice cream in his face—every goddamn time.

 _Stupid_.

With a grunt, he finally pulled into the Bat Cave, setting the vehicle into park. He sat in there for a long while, his lip threatening to curl. The intoxicating smell of her hair. The way she'd sometimes snort when he made her laugh too hard. The damn ice cream squished between them as their lips locked, feeling the coolness as both of them heated up.

 _Stupid._

Jumping out of the Batmobile, he pulled his mask off, ignoring how matted to his skull his hair felt. He threw the mask into its place far harder than he intended; it slammed against the back wall, bouncing forward and falling to the ground just before his boots. With a snarl, he kicked it with an untethered amount of force that sent it flying across the cave, smashing against one of the keyboards of the minor computers.

"A bad night?" His father's voice echoed throughout the cave, cascading all around, though he knew exactly where it came from. Stalking his way up the metal stairs, Damian's eyes fell on Bruce.

He had managed to get himself into his wheelchair, and he sat patiently in front of the main computer with a coffee before him. "So?"

"Just boring," Damian spat. "Nothing interesting, so I came back here."

"Ah, yes. Who'd have thought that protecting a city was required to have a certain level of entertainment to be worthwhile?" Bruce droned, tilting his head to the side. "I should have known."

"Maybe it doesn't _need_ it anymore," his son snarled, hitting the clasp that kept his armour in place. It gave him access to the zipper that allowed him to start taking it off. "Boring means it's cured, right? _Right_. Well, I'm going out."

Bruce cocked an eyebrow, eyeing his son as he threw the suit in a haphazard heap. "At this ungodly hour?"

"Very funny."

"Where to?"

Damian eyed him sharply. "Does it matter?"

A long silence grew between them; concerned blue eyes locking on sharp green ones. At thirty-two, Damian was every bit a responsible adult that he had been. A rather patchy childhood had thankfully given way to the mostly well-adjusted man that was his son, something he was quite proud of.

Even so, regression was expected after what happened with Bea.

"You… going to see her?" His voice was gentle, nowhere near accusing.

Pulling off his boots, sending one flying flying right after the other, Damian didn't answer right away. Instead, he adverted his gaze, focusing on something—anything—else. "Maybe."

"Well," his father sighed, "Say hello to her for me, I guess."

"Yeah."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

 _Lilies._

They had always been Bea's favourite, especially the pure white ones. "Calla lilies," she had explained one time, pointing them out when she had spotted them at Gotham's Garden Show. Her hands had cupped one of the flowers, her caramel skin stark against the lily's large petals.

"They look a little plain, if you ask me," he huffed playfully, crossing his arms.

Bea's outraged expression had elicited a laugh from him. "How dare you!" she accused, smacking his arm. He rubbed it gingerly, pretending that it hurt. "I think you of all people should be able to differentiate plain for classic, Mister Wayne."

He rolled his eyes. "Ugh. Whatever; it's just a flower."

"That's it," she announced with a shrug. "You've just got no taste, Dame."

"Oh, that's definitely it."

"It is," she insisted, pulling her wallet out. She handed the florist a ten before plucking the calla lily from its container. "I dunno, I think it's kind of a deal breaker."

He cocked an eyebrow, grabbing her around the waist. Pulling her closer to his body, feeling hers against his, a wicked grin spread across her face. "Is that so?"

The calla lily tapped him gently on the nose. "See? Isn't that preferable to vanilla?"

"Definitely less _sticky_ ," he allowed before pecking her on the cheek. "Fine, I'll allow 'em. But just for you."

"Good. Because they're my favourite," she continued, wrapping her arms around his neck. He leaned in a little closer, brushing his lips against her nape. "And no amount of elicit, public affection can change that, good sir."

Back then, the lily had seemed so vibrant; though he was intent on protesting, it was easy to see why Bea had liked them so much. Its white petals had seemed less blank than an actually vibrant white, the stem a lush springtime colour rather than just simply green.

But as he stood before Bea's grave, the lilies he clutched in his hand had a sobering effect. They were just flowers, nothing more. Their stems gave way under his grip, releasing the last bit of water the florist had given them. Placing them down at the base of her headstone, he couldn't help but feel the world seemed far less vibrant in general.

Damian stood there for what felt like years, the cool find brushing gently against his cheeks, eyes dull and unfocused. He had never felt like there was a god of any sort, let alone one worth praying to; likewise, talking to Bea—to her corpse buried six feet under or so—always made him feel stupid. Lips twitching, he couldn't bring himself to even bother.

 _'_ _She's gone. There's no goddamn point.'_

Forcing his eyes shut, he tried to force down the anger building in from his core. It was always there; never tears, just pure rage. Once unbridled, he had managed to get his grief under wraps—enough to function, at least. Still; below the surface, it boiled constantly, forcing him back into what he felt was rashness far below his years.

"Damnit, Bea," he whispered finally, his eyes still closed.

As was expected, there was no response from her. If anything, the wind seemed to calm down a little more, throwing the cemetery into a disheartening and resounding silence. He swallowed hard, shaking his head.

Perhaps it wasn't the wind subsiding that had taken all sound away. His heart pounded in his ears, the only sound he could hear. It was a headstone—ultimately like any other surface. It meant nothing—or rather, it shouldn't have. Stone crumbled and eventually faded, just like anything else.

Still, it was the intricate lines in the relatively new stone that he focused on. It was enough to distract him from the approaching footsteps, but not the brunt of the gun that was shoved into his back moments after the gate of the cemetery had closed.

"Little late to be here," came the gruff voice.

Opening his eyes, Damian hoped the numbness would wash back over him, sending him where he needed to be. Much to his displeasure—no, _pleasure_ —it didn't. Instead, the antagonization flowed through him, even as he placed his hands on his head, feigning surrender. Fingers twitching, it took every fibre of his being to not whip around and snatch the guy's neck.

It would be _so_ damn easy.

A second clink and jab to his spine later let him know a second person was there. The two barrels pushed against his wool coat.

"He looks like the type to carry all his credit cards on him," the second voice said. It was deeper than the first, older if he had to guess. To his surprise, a third voice giggled.

"Take them all."

He sighed. _'Finally; release.'_

Just as he was about to twist, knee ready to snap out against the guns, yet another voice rang out, though from farther away.

"H-Hey!" it said. "Is everything okay over there?"

Cursing under his breath, Damian snarled; here, the opportunity to kick the shit out of people had presented itself, yet it had been taken away so damn quickly. It was one thing to have Batman show off some flashy moves in front of people that would be knocked out, their memories incoherent at best, but yet another to do the same in front of a witness. Especially when he was still plain old Damian Wayne.

Instead of cracking skulls—the need still burning in his blood—he settled on a bored, heavy sigh. " _Sure_. Everything's peachy-keen, sir."

"Wallet," the female voice demanded, her voice high pitched. It couldn't have belonged to someone more than twenty, though with the others, he was unsure. "Now."

Slowly bringing his hand down to his back pocket, he dug around his jeans for it. Fingers clasping the leather, he yanked it out, tossing it backward. "There you guys go," he answered dryly. "Anything of interest in there? Let me know."

"Shut it!" snapped the older man.

There was a long pause after her heard the wallet being rifled through, but Damian knew it was only a matter of time; mentally, he started a countdown. When he hit two, it came. "J-Joseph…"

"What?"

"That's… Damian Wayne…"

"What, are you fucks that chicken of a rich kid?" the girl snarled. "there ain't no body guards around here. Just take the cash and cards and go!"

It must have been enough of an encouraging pep-talk, because the rifling through continued. Though they wouldn't come across any cash—his father had taught him the annoying habit of only paying with card—they still would manage to make off with enough to do damage.

For a _normal_ person, anyway.

But, as Damian reminded himself, placing his hand back on his head while the guns remained firmly pressed into his back, all he needed to do was follow them to get it back. All it would take was enough for them to leave the cemetery, and him passing by whatever poor person tried to intervene.

 _Patience_ , his father's voice chimed in his head. It rung like a bell tolling from his childhood, over and over again. ' _Ugh_.'

"Look, I'm sorry to interrupt, but I think you should give his wallet back."

He nearly choked on his own saliva. It was the most pathetic-sounding theft intervention he had ever heard, the voice not holding much gusto. He had to stifle the laughter that threatened to choke out of his throat; instead, he hazarded a glance over his shoulder to take in the scene.

Three would-be thieves stood closer to him, their heads turned on the person that approached. The girl—fluorescent blue hair and stark black lipstick—held a rather annoyed frown, still clutching his wallet. Her brow was cocked, clearly unimpressed by the sorry excuse of a saviour.

"Excuse me?"

The man that approached had to have been about the same age. His head was hidden under a winter hat, though it was clear from his freckled face and tone of brow that he would have been ginger. He held a wool-mitted hand up.

"I just—maybe you could give it back to him, and we could all walk away in one piece, you know?" he suggested politely enough, his voice gentle. "I'm sure if you did that, he wouldn't press charges. Right, sir?"

The man— _boy_ , really, Damian surmised—looked at him with some sort of pleading in his hazel eyes. Clearly, he wasn't one for conflict; it begged the question as to why he didn't have his head down, and why he had stepped up in the first place.

With a sigh, Damian answered him. "Sure."

"There," the boy supplied, hazarding a smile. "See? No harm done."

Rolling her eyes, the girl locked eyes with and nodded to her one comrade. He removed the gun from Damian's back, pointing instead at the boy. He paused, looking down at the barrel as any reasonably scared person would.

"Fuck off," the girl spat vehemently, "And mind your own business."

Slowly, he raised both of his hands as if in defence. "I'm sorry."

"You _should_ be."

Awkwardly, Damian shifted in his spot. _'What an idiot,'_ he thought, sizing the boy up. Even so, he knew and appreciated the sentiment; if even a quarter of Gotham did what the kid was doing, his job as Batman would have long since null and void.

Yet it still put him in an awkward position—not that the boy would have any way of knowing that.

Just as Damian made a move to turn in his spot, the boy lashed out, snatching the gun from the man's hand, whipping it around in his hand to face the other direction. He stopped, brows skyward—almost impressed.

"Can you _please_ give him back his wallet?" the boy asked again, training the gun on the other man.

It appeared as though the sudden change in power surprised everyone there except for the kid. The girl's eyes were wide, staring at him with pursed lips, and her two comrades stood with their mouths hanging open.

Damian used the distraction to shoulder the girl, snatching the other gun from the man's hands. She stumbled backward slightly, but once she caught sight of the turn of events turned on her heel. With a twist of her bright blue hair, she shot for the exit, leaving her comrades to fend for themselves.

The boy gestured to the man with his gun. "Oh, she's dropped the wallet. Do you mind…?"

A fierce head-shake and a wallet tossed to his feet later, the boy smiled. "Thank you! You're free to go now, if you'd like." The two men didn't need to be told twice. They stumbled after the girl with far less grace, but made it to the exit all the same. The gate slammed behind them, echoing across the almost deserted cemetery.

"O-Oh my god…"

Damian looked at the boy. He had tossed the gun onto the dirt, placing his mitted hands to his cheeks. "I-I could have accidentally killed them…"

"That's generally what guns do," Damian pointed out dully, putting the safety back onto the one he carried. He bent over to snatch the other one off the ground, along with his wallet. Leaving through it, he noticed nothing missing. "Thank you, though."

His words seemed to go over the boy's head. He regarded Damian with far more stress in his expression than when the gun had been pointed in his face; it was rather amusing. "That's—I've never... held a gun before…"

"Well you could have fooled me," Damian replied, switching the safety off the second one. "But the more important part is the fact that you fooled _them_."

At this, the boy nodded breathlessly. "Still…"

Offering his right hand, Damian waited. "Thank you," he repeated again. "Damian Wayne, by the way."

Much to his surprise, the boy's features failed to light up with the usual recognition. There wasn't a person in Gotham that hadn't heard of the Waynes; it made going unnoticed a bit difficult, and he was glad for the opportunity. Rather genuinely, he removed his mitten before he shook it. "Rhys."

"Rhys…?"

"Y-Yeah, you know," he offered lamely, "Like a peanut butter cup?"

Damian bit back the notion to reiterate and explain he had wanted a last name, but instead let it go. Giving Rhys a glance-over, his clothes indicated a transient nature that he was sure underlined the non-usage of a surname. Instead, he continued with, "Gotcha. Well, let me… get you something."

"For?"

He cocked an eyebrow; he had only offered because it seemed like something Bruce would have done—not that either of them had really ever needed saving, for obvious reasons. Even so, it was odd to have to explain something he thought normal people would have done, especially because he had never done it before.

"For saving me, I guess," he supplied, noncommittal. "What do you need? A meal? Some new jeans?"

Rhys looked down past his puffy coat and down to his weirdly patterned loose-pants. His cheeks flushed, and he snapped his head back up to look back up. "O-Oh, no," he answered, placing his mitten back on. "I know they're ugly, but they're scrubs."

"Scrubs?"

He nodded, a nervous laugh escaping his lips. "Yeah. My old university had us wear them every day to class, but I guess the nursing program at Gotham U is a bit… _different_. Think they'd have mentioned that somewhere in the syllabus, but you know…"

 _'_ _Well that explains it,'_ Damian concluded, looking him over. Not only was he young enough to be in school, but he wasn't from Gotham; he would have had no idea who the Waynes were. It suited him just fine.

"Well, can I at least give you a ride to wherever you're going as a thank-you?" Yet again, it felt odd offering something like that, but something told him it was the most _normal_ -sounding thing any _normal_ person would do.

After what seemed like much deliberation, Rhys agreed. "Thank you."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

Save for the grace of the blackout curtains, the morning sun would have otherwise blinded Damian. Rolling over in his bed, feeling sheets pull against his bare skin, he couldn't help be grateful despite already being awake. Years of his father's—and later his—rather odd occupation had garnered proper learning; they might not have looked the best, but they most certainly proved useful.

He would have rather had them than anything else that matched his otherwise dark room. Though it was nothing close to the monstrous size of the master bedroom, Damian's was still quite large. Too large, in his mind.

Throwing the blankets from his body, his bare feet padded along the long expanse of dark-washed wood as he headed into the ensuite. Not bothering to flick the lights on, he found himself easily-adjusted to the darkness, catching his reflection in the mirror.

Like on any other day, the mirror revealed a broad-shouldered man with pale skin flecked with years worth of scars. The bruises never stayed long, especially with each update made to his armour.

Even so; it was far from perfect.

He ran the tap, letting the water cool from room temperature, before swooping his hands under the stream and taking a big gulp. The water drained down his throat—some swallowed, some just missing his mouth—sating his thirst.

Though the usual air of calm still hung about him, agitation still burned deep beneath his skin. The night previous had hardly gone the direction he wanted; he'd had given anything to go back and beat the shit out of those people, even if they were only petty thieves. He knew it was hardly something that Batman could be seen doing, but the reality was that he hadn't been incognito when the opportunity had presented itself.

 _'_ _Should have just done it,'_ he thought vehemently, twisting the tap off with a curled lip. _'Who the hell cares if a civ sees?'_ But the weight of the situation wouldn't have been lost on him, even if he tried.

Bruce's voice—his _lecturing_ —ran too far deep into his veins. From the day he first landed in his father's care, it was all he ever heard. _Damian, don't kill people. Damian, don't steal things. Damian, don't kill people. Damian, respect people, in our out of suit. Damian, don't kill people. Damian, don't bring weaponry out in public. Damian—Do. Not. Kill. People!_

He was so engrossed in the awful nostalgia that he somehow missed the knocking on his door. An ordinary person would have assumed he was sleeping, but he had long since given up on the notion that their family was anything _but_ ordinary. Instead, Bruce had elected to enter his bedroom anyway.

Much like his son, the geriatric didn't have an issue with the dark. It wasn't as though either of them were enhanced in any way; but years of scurrying around in it had made their eyes so used to it.

"Were things a little more interesting for you the rest of the night?" his father asked.

"Not really."

Bruce let his fingers trail along the slowed-down wheels of his chair. "Ah. I thought otherwise, given that I didn't hear you get in."

Noncommittally, Damian shrugged. "No. Just your average night in Gotham—or rather, _not_ your average night, I guess."

"Well which is it?"

Rolling his eyes, his son straightened in his spot before the sink. "What are you doing up so late anyway? Thought those days were over, old man."

"You keep calling me that," Bruce pointed out, slight rancor clouding his features. "But I'm only in my sixties."

"Could've fooled me."

He eyed his son wearily; they both knew he was chair-bound for reasons unrelated to his age, but it had long since been a running joke otherwise for Damian. "I was doing research, for your information."

"On?"

Bruce let fake tremors run through his hands, looking back and forth with a look of feigned terror. "O-Oh no! Where am I? I am but an old man, lost and alone with a grouchy fucking teenager!"

"Very funny," Damian snapped, smacking him upside the head. Or at least, that's what he meant to do; his father hand snapped out to grab his wrist before it could be managed. The man might have been slowing down in his age, but he wasn't _that_ sluggish. "You messed it up with the last part though. I'm a little past the teen phase."

"Could've fooled me," Bruce mimicked, raising his brows at his son. He groaned; evidently, even _Damian Wayne_ couldn't escape Dad-humour. "Well, if you insist; it was research you were meant to do ages ago."

"…on?"

"Care-takers."

"Oh."

Bruce nodded, evidently not impressed by his lack of continuation. "I've compiled a list of suitable ones, but you've got to interview them all. Today, in fact. So go and take a shower and look somewhat decent; they start at eight."

"More interviews?" Damian asked icily. "Are you serious."

"Dead." Bruce turned his chair around and headed for the door.

He turned, not able to hide the bitterness in his expression. "If only I could _be_ so lucky…"

Pausing to look back at his son over his shoulder, Bruce smirked. "I planned on outliving you out of spite; get used to it."

•••••

Once again, the amount of people that showed up to the invitation was alarming. Though he was thankful he didn't have access to his father's email, Damian could only imagine that it was overflowing. With the public ad still out there and Bruce's new list of compiled people, the amount of applicants was nothing short of overwhelming.

Especially for a man who had no intent of being up whenever there was sun.

With a small, grumpy swig—make that a _large_ swig—of vodka, he slammed the bottle down on the running table in the hall. Twenty. He had to sit through twenty people for the day. At the very least, he could expect _some_ of them to be slightly qualified if Bruce had actually looked into them beyond their resumes, but he wasn't hopeful.

Pulling open the large doors to the drawing room, he surveyed the mess of people before him. His brow scrunched up after he finished counting all of them. "There's more than twenty of you," he growled, scanning the crowd; it was probably the most amount of people Wayne Manor had seen in decades. "Why are there more than twenty of you?"

A rather plump-looking woman stepped forward. With her scrubs and rather gentle-looking smile, she at least _looked_ the part. "The Gotham Times ran another ad. It said you would also be willing to date the applicants if they proved to be sufficient care-givers."

He felt his stomach drop through the floor. Moments seemed to tick by, him standing there wordlessly as he surveyed the room; sure enough, more than ninety percent of the occupants were women, and, if he had to hazard a guess, were single. Worst of all, he mused, was that it was his own _father_ that put the ad out.

"It's a lie," Damian snapped, crossing his arms. "Anyone expecting that can get the hell out of my goddamn house!" A few of the women looked between each other, confusion clouding their expressions. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. "Get _out_!"

It didn't take long for the message to sink in. Gathering their things as quickly as they could, the applicants rushed from the room as though it were on fire. Just as the last few stranglers made their way past him, Bruce rolled up.

"I take it things didn't go well?"

"Fuck off."

The old man raised his greying brows. "Worse than not well?"

"You know what you did."

"Actually, I don't."

Damian threw his hands in the air, stalking off. His jaw was too tight to function; though as he slammed his fist against a vase, sending it shattering across the floor, he realized it was probably for the better.

 _'_ _That bastard,'_ he revelled, grabbing his jacket and wrenching the door open. _'He knows it's barely been a year—we've been longer without Alfred, and he still can't get over that!'_

He slammed the door behind him, making his way out into the long expanse of backyard the manor afforded them. A pristine emerald field lay before him, creased only with a stone path that lead to their family cemetery. Boots crunching on the gravel, Damian made his way down the path practically foaming at the mouth.

Craving a cigarette more than ever, he reached into his jacket for them. It had been ages since he had one, and the nicotine pulled at his strings far more than he would have allowed himself to admit.

 _'_ _What the hell is wrong with him?'_

He pulled out his lighter, stick in mouth as he cursed the wind. The flame tossed this way and that, although protesting him giving in to the habit. Finally, it stuck, lighting the end of the cigarette. He sucked in, allowing the smoke to flow through his system.

The fact of the matter was he had inherited his asshole-like tendencies from his father; Bruce might have been able to convince himself otherwise, but his son knew the truth. Damian knew full-well the extent of Bruce's past relationships—mainly with Damian's mother and with his childhood friend, Rachel—and exactly how they had both ended. In anyone would have been sympathetic to his situation, Damian wanted to believe it would be his father.

But he wasn't; he was so goddamn _far_ from it that he had lost his mind.

The slew of people that had gathered in their house was bad enough, but after what had been written, all of the literates of Gotham thought him desperate. "Fuck this city," Damian snarled, taking another drag. "And fuck him. Fuck them all."

"I—this is a bad time, isn't it?"

Swirling around, Damian was ready for a fight. Teeth grit, coming face to face with the boy from last night was the last thing he expected; exhaling the smoke allowed for a little bit of release, but certainly not enough. "A little," he delivered harshly, trying to remember the kid's name. Instantly, he was reminded of some sort of confection, but nothing of note sprung to mind.

"Sorry," Rhys sighed, looking down toward his shoes. As to be expected with any stereotypical college boy, they were a pair of rather worn-looking converse. "I just saw you out here and wondered if you were okay."

"Do you normally just wander onto private property and confront people about potential emotional turmoil?" he asked dryly. "Or am I just the exception?"

" _That's_ not it," Rhys asserted firmly, a hint of flush grazing his cheeks. "I was actually a little late to an interview that was scheduled here, but judging by the people fleeing the scene, I thought there might have been a fire."

"There wasn't."

He raised his eyebrows, clearly unconvinced. "Are you sure? Everyone looks pretty scared."

Taking an extended drag on his cigarette, Damian surveyed him for a long time. His features seemed light, gentle enough to be genuine; yet he was still there, just like all those other gold-digging women.

"Look, Peanut butter," he started grumpily, tossing the cigarette down to the gravel.

"Rhys."

"Whatever." He twisted his foot on the discarded stick, extinguishing any sort of reprieve he might have gotten from it. "I don't know what the hell you read in the paper, but I'm just not interested. My father needs a caretaker, sure—that much is true. But I could do without the goddamn weirdness added by that stupid thing. He's senile, and I'm _not interested_."

"The paper?"

The innocence in his voice caught Damian off-guard, but only for a moment. "The Gotham Times, I assume. Maybe The Gazette too; hell, he might have plastered that thing in everything possible. But it doesn't matter; my answer still stands."

"I just meant that I didn't read anything from a paper, I—"

"Whatever. Website, blog—it's all the same."

Rhys' features contorted into the first sign of frustration. "Excuse me, I wasn't finished talking." His words were surprisingly short and curt, his hazel eyes locked to Damian's. "I don't know what you're talking about, so I'm sorry for the confusion. In any case, I was contacted by my dean and encouraged to apply for it as a placement. You know, like a co-op?"

Damian looked him over once more, trying to distract himself of what he assumed was the awkward creep of guilt. There was no way someone who managed a school would encourage a student to ' _go for it_ ' if it meant the student would be subjected to supposed offers of dating. If what he was saying was true, Rhys had no idea of his father's idiotic prank. "Fine."

"Thank you," the boy sighed gently. "Do you know if the position was still available?"

"It is."

His dry response seemed to perk the boy up, and for a moment, the thought of him being cute crossed Damian's mind. _'Not in the_ attractive _sort of way,'_ he told himself, _'More like a puppy in onesie pajamas. Or something.'_ The odd thought was a welcome one, momentarily forcing out the other options that he had found clouding his mind.

With a nod, Rhys took a step backward. "Think it's safe to go in there?" he asked, smiling. "You're sure there wasn't a fire?"

"A healthy sixty-two percent sure there wasn't."

"Wish me luck?"

The boy released a sigh, looking back toward the manor with a hint of anxiety about his features. It was easy to see why; the gargantuan home that hovered over them like a beast was more like a castle than something cozy.

Though he had made it clear that he hadn't a clue who the Waynes were, what the owned, and how much power they had, he could have probably ascertained as much based upon the sheer size and opulence of their property. It had never been something Damian saw as valuable, but his standards had been set far differently.

There were plenty of things he didn't have going for him that worry about wealth hardly seemed necessary. Anger problems, a father with control issues, a dead fiancée, and the need to hire someone to look after the decrepit old Batman while he did his job instead. The least he could do was fix _one_ of those.

"You won't need it."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Brows twitching unreadably, Bruce sat in his chair, his fingers ticking against the armrests. The large grandfather clock in the corner of the room ticked loudly, driving a beat into his already clockwork mind. He eyed the boy before him, taking in as much detail as he could as though he had missed him the first time; despite being out of the job for longer than he cared to admit, his mind was still that of the world's greatest detective.

As such, there was still something about the boy he couldn't place his finger on, something familiar yet not, something comforting but at the same time, he found the hair on his arms standing on end underneath his cardigan.

Aside from the confusing impression, his first instinct was to dismiss him completely; Rhys hardly looked the type to be able to manage hauling bodies in and out of wheelchairs, but his physical examinations from both his school and one of Bruce's own devising had proved otherwise. Still, save for his somewhat intelligent-looking hazel eyes, his features appeared almost inappropriately child-like.

"And you're… how old?"

The boy cleared his throat. "Twenty-one," he answered before giving an awkward, self-depreciating laugh. "But I know I've still got the baby-face going on."

 _'_ _That's for damn sure,'_ Damian and Bruce both thought simultenously, looking him over. Even so, of all the people who had shown up to the interviews, he seemed the most prepared. He wore a plain white dress shirt matched with a thin black tie—a stark, respectful contrast between the _'I'm asking for it'_ club-dresses Damian had been subjected to.

"If you're that young, what are your hours like?" Bruce continued. "I'm a senior. I have round the clock needs, and you're in school."

"Fully available on weekends for as long as you want. I'm still mid-semester, so I've got class from about eight to twelve every day, but beyond that, I'm yours—I mean… if you want. Sir."

Damian's lips twitched slightly, threatening to crack a slight smile. He couldn't imagine how his father would be reacting internally to the fact that someone younger than him was actually calling him something other than ' _old man_.'

 _'_ _Imagine that; the respectful kid he always wanted but never got.'_

Uncrossing his one leg from the other, Damian reached for the bourbon he had snuck into the drawing room. Just as his fingers brushed the stout glass, he felt a sharp jab to his side; looking over, his father's brow was cocked, pen in hand. "It's not even ten o'clock."

He shrugged. "Different schedules, old man. For me, it's practically two A.M."

"Ah, yes," Bruce continued, looking back to his interviewee with a newfound spark in his eyes. "That's another thing I wanted to address. How do you feel about the occasional time staying late on the nights my son can't get home on time from his night shifts? Eight is an early class time; I can't imagine you'd want to stay up to four in the morning."

 _'_ _Night shifts,'_ Damian mused, rolling his eyes. _'That's right; let the kid think I work at a bar or as a stripper instead of putting people in jail the good-ole_ vigilante _way.'_ On the other hand, he wasn't quite sure what to think about his father leading the kid down that line of questioning; did he want a caretaker or not?

Regardless, Rhys seemed to recover quite easily. "That won't be a problem at all. I normally only get about three or four hours a day anyway."

"Partying hard in the dorms of Gotham U?" his father asked mirthfully, the corners of his lips turning up.

"No," he answered, flushing slightly, "Nothing like that, sir. I just like to keep busy."

Bruce nodded for quite some time as though weighing what he had just said. His blue eyes were narrowed into his usual keen, curious manner, forcing Damian to wonder just what it was the boy had said to make his father deliberate for so long.

Finally looking up from to meet Rhys' eyes, Bruce smiled. "Either me or my son will give you a call once we have anything figured out."

With a smile, he offered his hand out. Jumping to his feet, Rhys shook it confidently, matching the gesture. "Thank you for the opportunity, Mister Wayne."

"Yes. Damian will show you out."

His son barely had time to react to the slight chill in his voice before he was pushed forward. Begrudgingly, Damian led him down the stairs and out into the entrance hall where his things were placed in a closet almost double the size of the average Gotham bedroom.

Slipping his coat on, Rhys' eyes were fixed to the top of the bannister, the level they had just came from. "I didn't get it, did I?"

"Hard to tell with him," Damian supplied lamely, tossing him his scarf. "Something you'll have to get used to—assuming he pulls his head out of his ass and actually hires you, like he should."

A small smile crept onto Rhys' lips as he stared up at Damian. "You think he should?"

"Personally? Yes. It sure as hell beats out any awkwardness from the ad."

The boy wrapped his scarf around, pulling it tightly against his neck. "You mentioned it before, but I never got a chance to read it."

The thought of it sent bile rising to Damian's throat; all of the women—even some _men_ —that had showed up, simply for the sake of snatching up what wasn't normally available to them. With a curled lip, he answered, "Don't."

"That bad?"

"Excruciating."

"Oh."

He finished buttoning his coat up in silence. With a sigh, he finally looked back up to Damian, holding out his hand. "Well, thank you."

"For?"

"T-The—I mean… letting me in to interview with your dad. You didn't exactly seem like it was something you were interested in doing at first when I saw you out back. But even if I don't get it, I'm glad you changed your mind."

"You're welcome, I guess," Damian answered, not entirely sure why he felt as awkward as he did. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, trying to compose himself better; even with as little sleep as he had gotten, he shouldn't have been this inarticulate. "Why didn't you mention last night to him?"

"Last night?"

"Yeah, in the graveyard."

Rhys shrugged, his gentle lips curving slightly. "I didn't think it was relevant to the job, you know?"

"Even though saving his kid from a robbery might have made you look better than other contenders?" the man asked, cocking his eyebrow as he leaned against the doorframe. He crossed his arms, looking at Rhys with scrutiny.

He nodded. " _Especially_ for that reason. I want to be hired because I'm good at what I do, not as some favour for doing something unrelated."

Damian shook his head in shame, blowing out a sigh. "What the hell kind of person like _that_ comes to Gotham…?"

"What do you mean?"

"It means you and your weird integrity are going to get eaten alive here, kid."

•••••

"I don't like him."

Damian sat across the long, mahogany dining table, his father's words hardly a surprise. Still mulling on his bite of food, he leaned back in his chair, savouring the flavour. After a pause, he swallowed. "Too young?"

"No."

"Then?"

"I just don't _like_ him."

Frowning, Damian had to resist the urge not to call the old man out on his bullshit. Or did he? "Look, I'm not an idiot. Bruce Wayne doesn't not like someone ' _just because_.' What was wrong with him?"

"Listen, I can't put my finger on it," his father defended, pointing his fork at him. "But my intuition is always right."

" _Is_ it?" his son delivered dryly. "Because the last I remember of your so-called _intuition_ , it led you to fracture your spine permanently. How's that going for you, by the way? Not walking, I mean." The growl from his father's lips was more than satisfactory; clearly, there was no age limit to enjoying someone's suffering. "All I'm saying is to give the kid a chance. He's miles better than anyone _you've_ brought in with those stupid advertisements in the paper."

"How so?"

"He's not trying to get knocked up by me for shot at the Wayne fortune, for one."

There was a long silence between them. "That is… a fair point, I suppose."

Damian dropped his fork against his plate, the metal clanging against the fine china. Looking heated down to his father, he forced the tic in his jaw to subside. "Why'd you even put that in there in the first place?"

Bruce shifted uncomfortably in his chair, avoiding his son's gaze. "You needed it."

"And that was for _you_ to decide, was it?"

"Yes," he insisted, finally meeting his gaze. "I've been through almost exactly what—"

Damian snorted, interrupting him. "So you know _exactly_ why this would have been something I was against and why it was an awful idea to begin with, you hypocrite." Getting to his feet, he shoved the chair back so quickly that it fell over, clattering on the ground. "Well, guess what. The kid's hired; you make a fool out of me, I make a fool out of you. I'm calling him right now."

Bruce narrowed his eyes. "You wouldn't dare."

" _Try me_ , asshole."

Storming over to the reading desk, he snatched the resume of Rhys Quinzel up, his eyes scanning the paper for his phone number. He walked back into the dining hall, pulling his cell from his pocket.

"Don't do it."

"Or else?" Damian challenged, plugging in the numbers.

"Just don't do it."

Locking eyes with his father, he hit the call button, the dial tone starting up. Bruce's face blanched as the phone rang once, twice.

"Damian!" he hissed, unclutching the brakes on his wheelchair.

Before the third ring was finished, the phone clicked. "Hello, Rhys speaking."

"Hi Rhys," Damian said, enunciating more effortful; every syllable seemed to drive a spike into his father's head. "It's Damian Wayne."

"Oh, hi! How are you?"

"Good— _fantastic_ , even. Anyway, giving you a call to let you know you'll be looking after my grumpy asshat of a father starting tomorrow. Hope you're up for it."

He could practically hear the excitement in the boy's voice despite Rhys' effort to contain it. It was a damn shame he was using him; the boy actually seemed fairly sweet. "Yes, yes of course! Thank you so much!"

"No problem. You have yourself a night, okay? Yeah. Bye now."


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

The docks were far more alive than when Damian had skimmed over them the night previous. Though not much was lit by the pathetic excuse of poles, just enough light glinted off the perilous waters and people on them to paint a coherent picture. He hovered atop one of the many questionable shipping containers that seemed to have appeared overnight, scanning the grounds for some hint as to what they might have been.

It didn't take long.

Three people sat in a chrome-fastened car, enough light reflecting back to imply it had been recently washed. The engine ran for the sake of the heat, Damian surmised; fog clouded the windows and thus the occupants' features, only adding to his frustration.

Part of him wanted to throw the towel in, head home, and shove his face right into a pillow. It seemed even vigilantism was getting boring, something that should have set some red flags off in regards to his mental health; it didn't. Instead, Damian forced himself to remain interested on what was going on.

 _'_ _No one clean does business this late at night.'_

It had been one piece of advice Bruce instilled in him early on—after, of course, the whole 'no killing' rule. At the time, he had only hot-headedly responded with a stuck up question of his own: _'If no one clean does business this late at night, what the hell are we doing out there?'_

Clearly an unprepared father at the time, Bruce had failed to supply the answer. The way his father's features had pulled and contorted, struck by the dilemma, had remained firmly implanted in his mind, a fond memory to visit.

The sound of the car door being forced open drew his attention. A long, slender pair of legs stepped out from the back seat. Despite the cold and minimal amount of clothing she had elected to wear, the woman they belonged to didn't seem to shiver.

With her tiny jean shorts, stockings, and bright blue hair, Damian instantly recognized her as one of the petty thieves that had tried to steal his wallet a week before.

Though his eyes were free to roll exasperatedly—an opportunity he took full advantage of—he had to force down the annoyed groan that almost slipped by his lips. Instead, it rumbled in his throat, deep, quieted, and far less satisfactory.

"You told me he was coming!" she snarled, looking back at the people in the car. "Ugh, just _forget_ it."

"Now just hold on a minute!" came an unfamiliar voice. A man appeared from the driver's seat, abandoning it to chase after her; while his form was broad and impressionable, his features were covered by a balaclava. "Get your ass back here, Vere!"

The woman swirled around on her heel, her lips screwed into disgust. "For what? You're clearly not going to hold up your end of the bargain."

 _'_ _How incredibly boring,'_ Damian remarked, giving up his hunched standing position for a sitting one. _'Junior business dealings. Wonderful.'_

"I will!"

"No the hell you won't!"

It was difficult to assess how the man was regarding her, but if his voice was any indication, Damian would have assumed it was with a pleading expression under his covering. "Y-You need to get back in the car."

"Make me," she challenged, crossing her arms.

" _Veritaph_ ," cooed another unfamiliar voice from the passenger seat. "Darling, why don't you come sit back down?"

The girl hesitated momentarily, her eyes fixed back on the car. "You both told me he'd be coming."

"And he _will_ ," the woman consoled, her voice velvet.

Despite the back and forth, Damian felt himself almost falling asleep. If he was being honest, none of it seemed interesting—not a single bit. When had being Batman become so… boring? With a bored sigh, he trudged to the end of the storage container, not giving a damn as to what might have been inside.

 _'_ _If it's dynamite, good riddance,'_ he thought irrationally, hopping down from it. His boots landed softly in the earth despite his weight, quieting an otherwise loud thump. _'Maybe if I'm lucky, they'll blow the whole goddamn thing up and I won't have to worry about stupid shit like this in the first place.'_

Midway through his trail up the side of the hill, something caught his eye.

One of the containers was ajar, letting a tiny sliver of light from inside out onto the docks. He paused, not moving for what felt like ages. If he didn't know any better, he would have said the tendrils of curiosity, though far smaller than they had been in their prime, were playing at the edge of his mind.

 _'_ _Who gives a shit?'_

That was the numb part of him, the one that had hadn't abandoned him or forced him into a pathetic heap like the rest of his emotions had. As time went on, he had assumed that it was supposed to lessen its grip on him, on his outlook and emotional stability, but the reality was it couldn't have been further from the truth.

"Just shove it up the kid's ass."

But there it was; something to actually force him to care. Taking a few silent steps toward the container, he adjusted the settings on his eyewear, hoping to see inside.

Countless bodies lined the interior walls of the container, their eyes closed in what appeared to be a slumber. At the very least, from the way their chests rose and fell like clockwork, they weren't dead. Though judging by the amount of fluids hooked into their veins, they probably would have been better off.

In the centre of the odd make-shift room stood two men with their backs to Damian, hiding their faces. Apparently defying the trope of mad scientist, the first had elected not to wear a white lab coat, though he appeared to be fidgeting with some concoction or another. The other, bulging arms crossed, was inspecting one of the bodies hanging from the glass chambers.

Between them, laying flat out and stark naked, was an elderly woman. With her skin almost translucent, veins marked her skin like an odd blue tabby. Her chest heaved at an oddly rapid rate, swaying her sagging breasts about, almost as though she were hyperventilating.

Whether or not all of that was related to the guests outside, Damian was unsure, but it hardly mattered.

"You can't just stick the serum up their asses _, Jeremy_." The scientist's voice was far higher than expected, but still biting. "That's not how this works. That's not how _any_ of this works."

"Sure, take the fun out of it."

The first man sighed. "The fun is when it actually does what it's _supposed_ to."

"Whatever, just hurry up. There's a girl ready for injection outside, and we need to scoop up a few more tonight. We've both got quotas; I dunno about you, but I'd feel a little safer at night if I met mine."

Slowly, Damian felt his brows rise. _'Maybe the night's not a_ complete _write-off, then.'_

The scientist walked around the gurney finally revealing his features to him. Save for his rather buggy eyes, his features were plain, though fixed into intense concentration; in his hand was a loaded needle filled with some dark liquid.

"Please," he breathed, pinching up the woman's loose skin; it wasn't a difficult task, considering how much of it she had. "Do what he asks _properly_ , and there's nothing to worry about."

"You say that."

"I mean it. It's not my first rodeo, after all."

The muscular man, Jeremy whipped around with a smirk. "Clown rodeo?" They shared a laugh for all of three seconds before he spotted Damian through the gap in the container.

"Shit!"

 _'_ _Well, might as well.'_ Shoving the door further open to accommodate his breadth, Damian stepped through the opening. "Shut it down," he directed to Jeremy. He was very unsurprised when the man reached for a gun at his belt.

Steeling forward, he reached for Jeremy's wrist grasping it and forcing it upward just as he fired off two rounds. With a grunt, the man attempted to snatch out of his clasp, but failed. Twisting his wrist, Damian forced him backward, slamming him into two of the glass chambers. Jeremy choked out a curse under his breath as the back of his skull cracked against it; balling his hand into a fist that made its mark on his temple, Damian begrudgingly had to remind himself of his father's rule.

The man collapsed to the ground in a slump, leaving Damian to face the scientist. Swiveling in place, instead, he came face to face with the naked old woman. She sat upright in the gurney, her lids half-closed. Her breathing slowed to a respectable pace before her eyes snapped open.

Much like a corpse's, they were milky white.

"What the f—"

He barely had time to finish the colourful word before the woman let out an ungodly scream, dropping her jaw far below where was healthy. She snatched forward, far quicker than her physique would have suggested catching him by surprise as her nails caught him just below his chin, catching on his mask.

She forced him forward, screaming again as saliva frothed from her mouth. With a yank backward, she stumbled toward him; his boot caught her square in the ribs, kicking her backward into the glass containment units.

"Kill him!" the scientist screamed, his eyes practically bulging from his skull as he clutched something in his hand. " _Kill him,_ baby!"

With another shriek, the woman bounded forward, leaping onto Damian's shoulders. He threw her off with a snarl, wondering if it was worth it to keep being gentle; the woman was clearly not herself—her eyes were a clear sign of that—but part of him wondered if there was anything to help her anyway. His arm-brace blades sliced against her flesh, not disturbing her in the slightest; almost as though she were undead, the near fatal injury didn't even draw her attention as she pounced once again.

Just as he pulled a throwing knife, four shrieks rang out from the other end of the shipping container. As quickly as the new, equally terribly-looking people jumped down, the doctor made his way to more, injecting them with whatever woke them.

" _Fuck_."

•••••

The sitting room was eerily quiet, but Rhys preferred it that way. Sitting on the couch—clearly upholstered with fabric he knew he would never be able to afford—he sat with his legs crossed, plugging away at his laptop. It was probably the only old, outdated thing in Wayne Manor that was still actively used, he thought; inches thick and aggravatingly slow, it was all he had to his name.

Scrolling down through the online PowerPoint he studied the content, ignoring the stalling indication the cursor gave off as best he could. The screen blanched, leaving the spinning cursor the only thing among a sea of white.

"Jeez. Even with the best Wi-Fi money can buy, you're still a piece of crap…" he murmured, tapping his finger on the trackpad. It did little to help; uncrossing his legs, he slumped against the back of couch, hoping he could at least be comfortable while his school computer failed him.

Putting it gently to the side, he got to his feet and stretched. The massive clock above the fireplace mantel read five A.M.; despite having worked there for just a week, he was beginning to suspect staying late was not going to be a rare occurrence.

Damian usually rolled through the door at four at the latest. Grumpy from whatever shifts he worked away at—Rhys had never asked, but he assumed he was some sort of bouncer for one of Gotham's more rowdy clubs—he would dismiss the caretaker without a second glance.

It wasn't as though he was particularly tired; at least, that wasn't the impression Rhys got, anyway. Though a few curt words had been exchanged between them since his hiring, Damian had been fairly quiet in regards to conversation.

"Come on, you stupid thing," Rhys hissed, tapping at the side of the laptop's base. "Come on…"

The suddenness of the door slamming open elicited a yelp from him. He fell sideways off the couch, landing bluntly on his shoulder, the laptop falling inches from his face. Scrambling to untangle his limbs, he got to his feet, heart in his throat.

" _Jeez_!" he breathed, clasping at his chest as Damian barged into the room. "You scared the crap out of… are you bleeding?"

As much as the man tried to hide it, the gash in his shoulder was undeniable. It poked through the enormous tear in his teeshirt, a spot of brilliant red against black. His intense green eyes stared at him from beneath an irritated brow. "Where's the kit? It was moved. Who said you could move the kit?"

Dashing to retrieve it, the boy didn't try to defend himself. He returned shortly, the first aid kit tucked beneath his arm and a hint of worry playing on his features. "Sit down," he commanded, placing the kit on the table and popping it open. Just as he was reaching for the items he needed, Damian grunted.

"Please?"

"Whatever." Despite the protest, the man collapsed onto the couch, nursing the wound in his inner shoulder. "Fuck."

"I'm going to be sanitizing it first, Damian," Rhys answered, pulling out the bottle and wiping his hands with it. "I can't stitch it until—"

But Damian wasn't listening. Instead, he took a swig of the Hennessey before dribbling it onto the gouge, not even bothering to wince. The roan liquid ran down the front of his shirt, soaking into the taut black fabric. "Done."

"I-I mean with the proper… ever mind."

Rhys plopped himself down on the couch, propping himself up higher by sitting on his knees. He peered over the injury, his eyes darting over the many puncture wounds before he took out his tweezers. With steady fingers, he pulled some of the deadened skin from the wound, placing it on a sheet of gauze he had laid out on the table.

"This looks like… Did someone _bite_ you?" Loquacious as usual, Damian merely grunted. "Must be some night club if they're letting people like that in."

The man's features skewed slightly, dropping Rhys a dirty look. "Night club?"

"You're a bouncer, aren't you?" he asked, dabbing some of the medical alcohol onto a cotton pad.

 _'_ _Oh, right…'_ "Strip club," he supplied moodily.

Rhys pressed the pad to the wound gently, soaking up as much dirt and grime as possible. "That seems so much worse, considering…" He let his words trail off, focusing on the injury at hand. Much to his relief, Damian hadn't flinched a muscle when he applied the alcohol; it made for a promising stitch-job.

Reading his needle, Rhys looked him in the eyes. "This might hurt a bit. Okay?"

"I've been stitched up before; you act like I'm seven or something."

His smile fell slightly, and he pursed his lips as he darted the needle into Damian's flesh. " _Well_ ," he annunciated coldly, "I don't know what you were doing at that age to warrant stitches, and I'm not sure I want to."

 _'_ _If only you knew.'_

Moodily, Damian took another considerable gulp of the Hennessy; thinking back, he knew exactly what he was doing at that age. Ra's Al Ghul had already instilled quite a bit of training in him by then, much of which revolved around rather sharp objects; he received his first stitches before he could remember.

Rhys worked in silence, pulling the thread in and out of Damian's skin, impelling the flesh together in as neat a line as could be managed. His fingers worked carefully despite the man's comment; having had stitches before or not, he didn't want to hurt him. Through the process, Damian remained silent, not even bothering to look at him, which suited Rhys just fine; it allowed him to concentrate on the task at hand instead of on being so close to the man.

Finally typing off the last bit, he pulled away, placing the freed needle on the gauze. Instantly, Damian got to his feet, ready to head out the door.

"Wait a minute," Rhys called after him, "You still need to sanitize the site."

"Already did. First thing, remember kid?"

His face flushed. "I-I'm not a—you have to do it a second time," he explained, regaining his confidence. "Especially considering I didn't get a chance to properly sanitize the thread before hand, infection is a—"

"I'll live."

With that, he turned back toward the door and left, leaving Rhys alone. Gathering up the remnants of the mock surgery, he grumbled, finishing his sentence. "…distinct possibility."


End file.
